In the middle of an uneventful summer a message reaches Rivendell: There is something amiss in the camps of the Rangers. Aragorn, Legolas and the twins wish to help, but soon they realise that, this time, the enemy might be much closer than they think.

So, here it is, the next story. I have successfully
replenished my energies, have managed to find a flat and a flatmate,
have moved, selected my courses, managed to find my way back into our
kind of university system, battled the Erasmus bureaucracy and
painted my room - meaning that I am ready to once again start a
story! And here is the first bit!

I am trying to post once a
week (Tuesdays for now), and promise to do my best to keep to that
schedule as long as possible. There might be a pause over Christmas
since I will be spending the holidays in Portugal with my mother, but
I should be back home before New Year, so don't worry. I won't be too
long either way. Other than that, I will give no promises or
guarantees - I have learned my lesson! •g•

So, without any
further ado, I give you this newest piece of madness! Thank you all
for your support and your reviews, they did mean a lot to me!

Visions of Betrayal

By: Nili

Rating:
Well, what do you think? Hmm? Yes, of course it's another PG-13, or T
or whatever is the equivalent in FF-net's little code. Surprise,
surprise. •g•

Spoilers:
As always, there are some spoilers for my previous stories,
especially for the last big one, "A Sea of Troubles". There
might be some more for some previous stories, most likely "To
Walk in Night" and perhaps minor ones for "An Eye For An
Eye" and "The Heart of Men" - those are usually the
culprits. They really would be minor, and I am always trying to
explain everything as well as possible while I go along. It would
probably help to have read "A Sea of Troubles", but I do
not think it is necessary. You should be fine either way. Oh, and
there are of course the usual spoilers for "The Fellowship of
the Ring", "The Two Towers", "The Return of the
King" and "The Silmarillion". But those really are
unavoidable, I am afraid. Hey, we are using Tolkien's
playground.

Disclaimer:
I own nothing in Middle-earth, to my never-ending
regret. Any recognisable character, setting, place, event and
so on belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien and his heirs. I do not have anyone's
permission to use any of the above, but I do so anyway. I am a
wicked, evil person, don't tell me. The rest, however (places,
characters, crazy wood-elves, demon horses etc.) belongs to me, so
please don't kidnap any of my characters. They might be rather happy
to get away from me, but I wouldn't like it all
that much. Besides, my alter ego would have a fit, and I am afraid
of her, so... And, finally, this story was written just for
fun, and I will most certainly not receive any money for it. It would
be a wonderful way to earn my living, but you can't have everything,
I guess, least of all vast sums of money.
Please do not use any of my original characters (or horses or bats)
without asking me first. Thank you.

Summary: Peace has once again returned to
Rivendell, and all Legolas, Aragorn and the twins have to deal with
are terrified elven captains with pre-wedding jitters and insane
wood-elves and their pets. As always, however, that rare time of rest
and relaxation is cut short when a message reaches the Last Homely
House: There is something amiss in the camps of the Dúnedain.
Rangers are disappearing, and fear and suspicion are beginning to
rear their ugly heads. Aragorn, his brothers and Legolas decide to
join the young ranger's people to discover what it going on, but they
quickly realise that the disappearances are by far not their only
problem. And while they struggle to keep the darkness at bay that the
Rangers have been fighting for so many long years, it becomes clear
that, this time, the enemy might be closer to them than they might
think - and that treachery could be lurking around every
corner.

Series:This story is, just like all the
others, part of my ever-growing mini series that is actually
beginning to outgrow the "mini" part. I am not quite sure
whether to count "A Taste of Disaster" - or where to count
it if I do - but I have decided to include it in the list. My other
stories are (in more or less chronological order):

Straight Paths
Everlasting
An Eye For An Eye
The Heart of Men
To Walk in Night
A Sea of Troubles
&
A Taste of Disaster

This newest proof of me being a disturbed and thoroughly weird person
takes place in the summer of III, 2954, roughly two months after the
end of "A Sea of Troubles".
Additional Notes: So, this is my first
story including the rangers. I am really nervous about that, mostly
because Tolkien said so little about them, or rather left us with so
little "real" information to work with. I will explain my
theories concerning their culture, way of life, location of their
settlements and so on later on, when it becomes relevant to the
story. Since I am always trying to stay true to canon (or as much as
possible), I would, as always, be happy about any comments or helpful
information. If you spot a mistake or have just found Tolkien's lost
letter where he unanimously stated just how many rangers there were
or what their organisational structure looked like, please don't
hesitate to send me an email. Oh, and I am also firmly determined to
finish this story in less than 25 chapters - stop laughing back
there! I am really trying this time - the last story really got out
of hand.

Universe-like: A long time ago I
decided to follow Cassia and Sio's lead and pretend that Gilraen was
killed with Arathorn, something that I sometimes
regret by now since I try to stick as closely to canon as I can.
It wasn't because
I don't like her though, no;
I started this way because it was easiest. I still
think it's hard to integrate her into Rivendell-life
realistically, and she's such a complex character that I only now
feel confident enough to have a go at writing her. Now it's too late,
though. •g• I hope you - and her - will forgive me for this not
so little detail.

Because of this and some
other smaller things some people have told me that my whole
concept is an AU, and I think they are correct, in a way. I
totally ignore the fact that Aragorn's supposed to have met Arwen
just after he had been told of his heritage (even
though, in general, I have nothing against Aragorn/Arwen romances),
and I must state here and now that I am
aware of the fact that I am not Tolkien and therefore do not even
begin to sound like him, something that can only be commented with
"Duh!" in my opinion. I could never write as well as he
does, which means that you will have to bear with me. The whole Arwen
dilemma I intend to solve at the end of this story.

A small
note concerning the Elvish used in this story, or, more specifically,
the Sindarin: I am a follower of the "mellon nín"
variety. If you like the undoubtedly equally correct "mellonen"
better, bear with me. As far as I know, you can use both versions.
And, last but not least: It is no
secret that English is not my first language. It is, in fact,
my third, but that's beside the point. •g• So please, let
me know when you find a blatant and horrible mistake
somewhere. You will, trust me - I usually spot them right after I
have posted a chapter and I would have to upload the whole thing
again to correct them. Some always manage to sneak their way into my
stories no matter how hard I try. Pointing them out to me
doesn't bother me at all and really helps to improve my English.
Thank you!

Chapter 1

It
was a beautiful morning that had dawned bright and clear over
the quiet and reasonably peaceful valley of Rivendell. The sun was a
blinding, pure golden circle in the azure blue sky, there was a
slight breeze ruffling the lush, green foliage of the trees and the
soft sound of crystal clear water that trickled from rock to rock
only accentuated the perfection of the day.

It wasn't
anything particularly surprising or noteworthy, mind you; for one, it
was the middle of July, which more or less guaranteed bright and
beautiful days around these parts, and besides, this was Rivendell.
No one openly speculated about why the valley was usually
spared the worst storms and ravages of the weather
that sometimes plagued the rest of this part of Eriador, but
more than one elf harboured his or her
suspicions.

None of this, however, was on Isál's mind
at the moment. That was partly because he had always been a firm
supporter of the theory that one shouldn't poke one's nose into
things that were none of one's business – especially in
Rivendell. Here non-compliance with that very simple rule could get
you into more trouble than you could imagine, even if you were
one of the people with an active and healthy
imagination. For him, the only exception to
that rule was Elvynd's business; he
simply loved poking his nose into his friend's business, and the
fact that the other captain hated it when he did it only served to
make it more enjoyable.

But no, it
was also because he was having more than his fair share of troubles,
and he was far too experienced (or jaded and disillusioned, as other
slightly ill-meaning people would say) to be lulled into a false
sense of security by something as trivial as a beautiful day. The
only positive aspect of all this was that,
for once, the reason for said troubles was
not his lord's sons and their friends. Well, that was not
completely true, of course, since they were always causing some sort
of mischief or other, but they weren't more bothersome than usual –
which, truthfully, didn't mean a whole lot.

But Isál
was nothing if not a fair elf, and so he had to admit that the past
few weeks had been fairly quiet. At first, it had been because Estel
had still been recuperating from the injuries he had sustained during
their last little expedition which most people would call a
full-blown catastrophe. It hadn't been the young man's fault,
though, or at least not exclusively. Isál had in fact spent
quite a bit of time trying to figure out whose fault all of this had
been, and still, almost two months after they had returned to
Rivendell, he hadn't found a definite answer.

After all, if
Lord Erestor hadn't been sent to Aberon, the insane Lady of Donrag
wouldn't have felt threatened by Rivendell's apparent close ties
to the rivalling city of her town. Maybe then she wouldn't have
sent her insane captain (who just happened to be an old enemy of
Estel and Prince Legolas who had been out for their blood for months)
to ambush Lord Elrond's chief councillor and his escort, even
though Isál secretly doubted it – the woman had been as mad
as a hatter, after all. Maybe their warriors wouldn't have been
slaughtered to the last man – or almost the last man, considering
that Elvynd had narrowly survived – and Lord Erestor wouldn't
have been taken captive and they wouldn't have thought all of them
dead.

Isál shook his head. Maybes and what-if-onlys
could be fun, but they were also highly futile. It didn't matter,
after all; all of it had happened, and then, when a messenger of
Aberon had arrived in Rivendell bearing the
news of their escort's deaths and their broken and discarded
weapons, everything had spiralled out of control. In his mind, the
memory of these days was overshadowed by emotions so powerful and raw
that he could barely bear thinking about them. He had thought Elvynd
dead, had thought that he had lost the one person in his life he
would name brother without question or doubt, and he had been so full
of hatred and grief and raw, all-consuming rage that he had lived
these weeks like under some sort of heavy veil that filtered out the
brighter colours and all but the most
solemn sounds.

They had got Lord Erestor back in the end and
Elvynd as well, but not before they (and Isál himself was no
exception) had all got themselves into a whole lot of trouble. Isál
had found out quite a few things, among them that he had neither the
patience nor the stomach for diplomacy and political scheming, that
one should never travel in the company of Lord Elrond's sons if one
wanted to make it out of any kind of place in one piece, and that one
should never – ever – infuriate Lord Glorfindel.

The
golden-haired elf lord had been devastated by his friend's apparent
death, and the fury he had felt for the people responsible for it had
not even diminished when he had found out that Lord Erestor was in
fact still alive. It had been he who had tracked down Lady Acalith's
insane captain and lover, the man who had
tortured the dark-haired elf lord and also Lord Elrond's youngest
son and Prince Legolas. No one had ever asked him how exactly the man
had died, and it certainly wasn't because of a lack of curiosity.
Everybody simply agreed that some things simply shouldn't be
discussed, and there were also some – those of a more delicate
disposition – that were of the opinion that there were things of
which they didn't want to know the details.

But somehow,
they had managed to extricate themselves from this latest, colossal
mess they had once again found themselves in. Lord Elrond, Lord
Glorfindel and Lord Elladan had appeared with what had looked like
half of Rivendell's warriors and had saved them before they could
get their heads cut off (a goal towards which they had been making
good progress), and somehow everybody already on the brink of death –
namely Estel, Prince Legolas and Lord Erestor – had managed to
cling to this life and plane of existence. It was nothing
particularly surprising, of course, since all three of them were
stubborn to a fault, but for a while, it had looked really, really
bad.

Isál shuddered slightly even despite the bright
rays of the sun that were bathing him in warming light. These
particular memories were almost harder to bear than the memory of
having to listen to Aberon's messenger stammer out that he was
sorry but that his best friend and all his
men were dead, and so he quickly pushed them to the side and into a
corner of his mind where he kept all the other unpleasant memories he
lacked either the strength or will to deal with.

It was
getting rather crowded in that corner.

"He's gone."

The
softly spoken words for which he had been waiting for quite some time
now brought him back to the present, and even despite his current
situation Isál found himself smiling. No matter how much
Elvynd annoyed him sometimes, he could not truly be angry with him,
not since that horrible day less than three months ago when he had
held his sword in his hands and had had to try and convince himself
that his friend was really gone.

He had been wrong, though,
and Elvynd was just fine, and that brought him back to just why this
was such a bad day. With an annoyed sigh, Isál moved until he
was right above the spot where he had heard his
friend's voice and manoeuvred his body until he could look the
other dark-haired elf in the eye. If Elvynd was in any way surprised
to see his fellow captain's head appear at such an – unhealthy
looking – angle, he did not comment on it.

"Truly?" Isál
asked, casting a wary look around. It wasn't that he didn't trust
the other elf, but it always paid to be careful.

"Truly,"
Elvynd echoed, an eyebrow arching amusedly. The action served to
highlight the faint scar on the left side of his forehead, the only
visible remainder of what had happened to
him in the human towns. "Come now, mellon nín, do you
not trust me? He is nothing but a youngling. There is no way at all
he could outsmart me."

Now it was Isál's
turn to arch an eyebrow.
"You're naturally modest, aren't
you?"

"No, I had to study," Elvynd answered,
deadpan.

"You always were too studious by half, Elvynd,"
the other elf told him. "And besides, he is not a youngling. Why,
he must turn twelve yéni soon!"

"He just
turned ten," the dark-haired captain told him. "And he is a
junior lieutenant in the northernmost patrol. Do you mean to suggest
that he could fool me into believing he had left when he
hadn't?"

"Who knows?" Isál grumbled. "These
young ones can be crafty. I know, because I was one myself not too
long ago…"

"…but I was never young, you're
right," Elvynd interrupted him, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. "I
came into this world fully grown and as wise and experienced as I am
now. I wouldn't possibly know anything about being
young."

"…and besides, it's not your blood
he is after," Isál finished the sentence, unperturbed by his
friend's words. "You do not have the kind of vested interest in
this that would convince me of your complete and utter
reliance."

Isál gave him a hard
look that was ruined by the position into which he had forced his
body.
"You also studied to exude this particular reassuring air,
I see."

"No," Elvynd responded with a grin. "That
is a natural talent." When the other captain didn't answer, he
shrugged and raised his hands, the grin still on his face. "He is
only a boy, Isál, and he would never truly harm you. He is too
smart for that, and also too frightened of his sister. So stop hiding
and come down here."

Isál looked at him in an
exceedingly haughty manner.
"What gives you the idea that I am
hiding?"

Elvynd regarded him in the exact same manner in
which he would have regarded an idiot child, or maybe a singing
orc.
"You are dangling from a branch, Isál, ready to
disappear back into the foliage should the need arise."

"And
your point is?" the other elf asked, giving the tree he was sitting
in a flat look. "It's a nice place to rest, contemplate the
universe…"

"For the last time, I am
not hiding from him!" Isál protested. "I am
avoiding him, yes, but that is all."

"He is a boy, Isál,
nothing more," the other said, exasperated. It was clear that even
his patience was beginning to wear thin. "So would you now please
stop being such a complete idiot and…"

"He is an
experienced warrior with access to as many sharp and lethal weapons
as he'd like!" This time, it was Isál who interrupted
Elvynd. "A warrior who is under the erroneous impression that I
have 'tainted his sister's honour', or am tainting her honour,
or something along these lines." He shook his head and snorted.
"Honestly, as if anybody could do anything to Gaerîn that she
doesn't want them to do, least of all 'taint her
honour'!"

"…come down here before I have to hurt you
seriously and repeatedly," Elvynd finished his sentence as if the
other elf hadn't spoken. "And please spare me the more intimate
details of your relationship with Gaerîn."

Isál,
to his consternation, blushed like a young lad or an elf maid, a
comparison he wouldn't have found amusing in the slightest.
"There
are no 'intimate details'!" he hissed at the other captain, his
hold on the branch next to his head weakening considerably as he only
just resisted the urge to wave his hands in agitation. "Are you
implying that I would do her the dishonour of … of … of doing
anything that might be considered inappropriate before we are wed
and…"

"No." Elvynd quickly shook his head. "I would
not insult you so, my friend. I know that you have nothing but the
deepest love and respect for the Lady Gaerîn, and would never
dishonour her, her family or your own by such an act." He grinned
at the still very pink elf in front of him. "It doesn't matter
what I think, however. And what Dólvorn thinks is not too hard
to guess."

"Of course not," Isál grunted, still
not making any move to climb down from his lofty but rather safe
perch in the tree. "He is quite vocal about his opinions.
Especially about his opinion of me."

"Come now, mellon
nín, do be fair." Elvynd grinned at him. "You did kiss
his sister in the courtyard, with the whole of Rivendell
watching."

"She kissed me!"

"Unimportant."

"And
she is his older sister!"

Elvynd gave him a look that
quite clearly said that he was an idiot or at least a socially inept
person who, to top everything off, didn't have any brothers
himself. Neither did he, in fact, but that was entirely beside the
point.

"Gaerîn could be six thousand years old and he
five-thousand six-hundred and he would still react like he is now.
She is his sister, and that is that."

"Whose side are you
on anyway?" Isál demanded to know. "He is overreacting!
Valar, if we had at least done something to warrant this kind
of persecution I would feel better! This just isn't
fair!"

"Whoever told you that life was fair?" Elvynd
asked with an arched eyebrow.

"You did."

"I
lied," Elvynd told him calmly. "You will have to bear this
terrible 'persecution' until the wedding. Which, considering that
you two acted like love-sick puppies for weeks until her parents
caved in and gave their consent, will be … when, in about sixty
days?" He shook his head. "I haven't seen such an
inappropriately short engagement in many years."

"You are
sounding like my mother," Isál accused him sourly. "And
her mother. And her grandmother, and her aunts, and…"

Elvynd
shot him a teasing grin.
"Well, they are right, you know. An
engagement between two people of your high social rank is expected to
last at least…"

"I know very well what period of time is
expected," the younger elf ground out. "And I would go insane
with impatience and desire…"

"Oh, please spare
me!"

"…for her company if I had to wait that long, and
so would Gaerîn." Isál looked at his friend
accusingly, as if he was being an unsympathetic, bull-headed idiot on
purpose. Objectively speaking, he might have been on to something.
"And the wedding is in sixty-five days," he corrected Elvynd,
"including today."

"You know," Elvynd told his friend
thoughtfully, "I liked you a lot better when you went red in the
face and started stuttering every time you saw her."

"You're
never happy."

"Oh, but I will be." The older elf shook
his head. "As soon as you two are married and you stop getting on
my nerves like this."

"Tell that to Dólvorn, not to
me. He is making me hid... avoid him all the time."

"No
one is making you do anything. Now get down here."

Isál
gave him a calculating look.
"Just how are things going between
you and Gaerîn's lovely cousin, by the way?"

This
time, Elvynd blushed until the scar on his forehead showed white
against the flushed skin, but he would not be deterred.
"That,
my friend, is none of your business. Unlike you two, we are private
people. Get down."

"You know," Isál began, "that
does not sound convincing. And besides, I do not trust you to protect
me if worst comes to worst."

"You
can protect yourself," Elvynd ground out. "You are a fully grown
elf, a captain of our lord's forces, who
will undoubtedly soon become a father."

"Elvynd!"
Isál exclaimed, looking scandalised.

"What?" The
other elf ask, his face a picture of innocence.

Realising that
it was hopeless, Isál shook his head.
"I would still feel
better if Dólvorn was a painter. Brushes are tickly more than
lethal."

"Isál!" Elvynd exclaimed, his patience
finally spent. "Down! Now!"

"What am I, a dog?" the
younger elf asked, offended.

Elvynd clenched his teeth and
cracked the knuckles of his hands, apparently more than willing to
demonstrate to his friend just what he was going to be soon,
namely a bloody heap on the ground, but before he could say anything,
soft footsteps could be heard behind them. The two of them turned
around, Isál clearly preparing to blend back into the foliage
of the tree at the first sign of red hair, and almost groaned out
aloud. Elvynd also closed his eyes and shook his head. This was just
his kind of luck, wasn't it?

A moment later, he opened his
eyes again and gave the approaching figures a half-sketched bow. He
had been raised to be polite, after all, and besides, if he had
learned one thing in the past, it was that these half-elves and
anyone who was in any way connected to them were devious and
possessed long memories. If you wronged or slighted or disrespected
them in any way – and sometimes even if you only thought about
wronging or slighting or disrespecting them in any way –, they
remembered. And later they would get you for it.

"My lords,"
he greeted the approaching elves. Isál didn't say anything
and moved as to disappear back into the foliage,
but Elvynd glared at him and the younger elf halted in mid-motion. If
he had to be here and face his sometimes-slightly-unstable young
lords, then Isál didn't get to back out either.

It
took the others only a few more heartbeats to reach them, and Elvynd
did his best not to show any surprise when he saw that there were
only three of them, not four or five. He didn't know if they did it
because they believed in safety in numbers or because they liked
annoying people in groups, but fact was that they had taken to
travelling in packs. Like wolves or, Elvynd decided wickedly,
Wood-elves.

"Elvynd," one of the three said congenially
and with a broad smile. "How are you on this fine day?"

If
the smile on Elladan's face wouldn't immediately have put him on
edge, that far-too-innocent greeting would have. It was never a good
thing when one of the twins smiled at you like this, and doubly so
when they were together. More likely than not, they were planning
something you really didn't want to know about and were only
looking for a way to drag you into their schemes.

But not him,
Elvynd thought almost wildly. Oh no, he was on to
them!

"Very well, thank you," he answered as politely as
he could. "We," he added, dragging a very unwilling Isál
into the conversation, who shot him a deadly glare in return, "are
merely enjoying the sunny morning."

"Ah, yes, you are off
duty until tomorrow, aren't you?" Elrohir chimed in. If anything,
he looked even more innocent than his brother, something that made
Elvynd's blood run cold. "I would assume that the two fairest
healers Rivendell has to offer are more than happy about
that."

Elvynd gave him an insincere smile, only just
stopping himself from telling the twin that all this was none of his
business and that he would clout the next person who commented on his
relationship with Gelydhiel, Gaerîn's kinswoman.
"You
would have to ask them, really. My lord."

"I don't
know," the third elf said thoughtfully. "I wouldn't go quite
that far to acquire information. Neither the Lady Gaerîn nor
her lovely cousin are as bad as Hithrawyn, my king's master healer,
but … well, they are healers."

Isál gave the
silver-haired wood-elf a thoroughly insincere smile.
"We are
quite aware of that."

Celylith raised his hands in
placation, but before he could say anything more that could upset the
two captains (he was a Silvan elf after all, and just like his prince
he loved riling Noldor whenever he could), Elladan interrupted the
two of them, a teasing glint in his grey eyes.
"I just
remembered; I think we met Lady Gaerîn's younger brother not
too long ago. He was looking for you, I believe. Has he found
you?"

"No," Isál said curtly. "And he won't,
at least not until he has calmed down a little."

"What did
you do now?" Elrohir asked, a big grin on his face.

"That's
the worst part of it: Nothing!" Isál
exclaimed. Elvynd hung his head, sensing a new round of complaints
coming up. "Yesterday evening we were taking a stroll through the
gardens, and just like this," he snapped his fingers, "that
red-haired menace appears and accuses me of knavishly abducting his
sister with the intent of tainting her honour even further than I
already have! He is completely overreacting!"

The twins
exchanged a sympathetic look. It was a brother's right to ensure
that his sister's honour remained untouched, of course, but Dólvorn
was overdoing it just the tiniest bit. If his sister's fiancé
had been anyone but Isál and if his sister had been anyone but
Gaerîn, they might even have understood him – after all,
Arwen was still unwed and would – if they had anything to say about
it – remain that way until they had made sure that any prospective
suitor possessed a completely immaculate character, only the best of
intentions and a high level of self-control. But Isál was far
too honourable to even think about doing anything inappropriate and
Gaerîn was … well, Gaerîn. It would take quite a bit of
courage to force any kind of unwanted attention upon her.

"So
it would seem," Elrohir admitted, truly beginning to feel for
Isál's plight. Even a blind man would see how much in love
the two of them were, and considering that the wedding date was
already set, Dólvorn was only making everyone's lives
miserable, nothing more. "Perhaps I could talk to Glorfindel, see
if he cannot assign him to a temporary scouting mission north for a
few weeks."

"Just
where are the prince and Estel?" Elvynd quickly interrupted his
friend before he could promise the twins something truly valuable,
like his soul or his firstborn son. Knowing the twins, they would
come to collect sooner or later. "It is rare to see you alone,"
he added, with a pointed look in Celylith's direction. The wood-elf
possessed the good grace to look slightly embarrassed. Elvynd was
speaking the truth, after all, it was a rare thing to find Legolas
without Celylith or the other way around.
"I trust that they are well?"

He was actually quite sure
that they were well since Lord Elrond had – with the cooperation of
Lord Erestor and Glorfindel and under a lot of pretences –
successfully prevented them from going anywhere where they could
possibly get into trouble. Then again, King Thranduil's son and
Lord Elrond's youngest were quite capable of finding or creating
blood, chaos and mayhem even here in Rivendell.

The three
older elves exchanged an unreadable look. That wasn't completely
true, of course, Elvynd corrected himself; he did know how to read
parts of it and didn't like it in the slightest. The three were up
to no good, and he was willing to bet his firstborn son that
it was somehow connected to Estel and his wood-elven friend. He was
also willing to bet that, this time, the two of them were the victims
of whatever scheme the three elves in front of them had set into
motion.

"I am sure they will turn up here sooner or later,"
Celylith finally answered for all of them with a nonchalant gesture
that looked in fact anything but.

"I don't know." Elladan shook his head. "They
were rather … preoccupied the last time we saw
them. They might not turn up for a while."

Elvynd and Isál
exchanged a weary look. The last thing they needed was to be involved
in another one of their personal jokes or vendettas or whatever they
were. Isál had Gaerîn's brother to worry about, and,
well, Gelydhiel's father who had been curiously uninterested in his
daughter's doings until now was beginning to become the tiniest bit
suspicious. All in all, if there was something they didn't need, it
was being drawn into another episode including blood, pain and chaos.
They had more than enough worries already.

"Do I want to
know what you did?" Isál asked tiredly. For someone who had
been hiding in a tree the better part of the day, he managed to look
amazingly like a parent who was talking to particularly strange,
difficult children.

The three other elves shared a quick look
before they started to grin.
"No, I
don't think so," Elladan finally told them.

"You will
find out soon enough anyway," Celylith added. There was a rather
malicious light shining in his eyes that made his dark-blue eyes look
even darker.

"So, what made you
turn on your prince, my lord?" Isál asked innocently,
dangling his legs over the branch on which he was sitting. "Does it
have anything to do with the bat?"

The twins shot the young
captain a look that would have frozen lava on the spot, and Elvynd,
too, glared at his friend. It was common knowledge that Lord Celylith
was a little strange – he was a wood-elf, after all – and that he
possessed a rather unnatural love for terrible and wild creatures.
Among his pets had been a warg cub, a giant spider baby and a huge ox
from Rhûn, and on their last journey the silver-haired elf had
picked up a small, black bat. It was quite funny, actually, since
Prince Legolas kept trying to order him to get rid of him and because
Elrohir just detested bats in general, but until now the wood-elf had
managed to remain steadfast. Where he was hiding the creature was
anyone's bet, though, and even despite extensive searches neither
Isál nor Elvynd had managed to locate it.

"'It'
has a name," Celylith told the dark-haired elf, his eyes narrowing
and his voice dropping to arctic levels. "'The bat' is a she,
and is called Lúthien."

A splutter could be heard
behind him, and Celylith turned around, just in time to watch Elrohir
turn very red very fast. The younger twin favoured him with a look he
usually reserved for annoying councilmen and attacking orcs.
"I
thought we had talked about this, Celythramirion. If you ever again
speak the name of my great-great-grandmother when you are referring
to that … thing, I will have to hurt you."

"It's not
as if you can decide what other people do with your ancestors'
names, Elrohir," the younger elf protested. "There are dozens, if
not hundreds of she-elves who are called Lúthien, and I don't
see you bothering them."

"Oh, but I bet he
would like to," Elladan interjected in a singsong voice in a not
uncommon display of brotherly disloyalty.

Elrohir ignored his
twin and only continued glaring at the wood-elf.
"Exactly, you
lunatic: She-elves. She-elves, not bats!"

"I fail to see
the difference."

"No wonder you're neither married nor
betrothed."

"Neither are you," Celylith retorted.
"Actually," he went on, "neither of you is."

"See
what you have done?" Elvynd mumbled softly so that only Isál
could hear him.

The other captain nodded mutely, his eyes
glued to the three bickering elves in front of him. Elvynd couldn't
blame him. No matter how often he witnessed this, it never ceased to
amaze him. It was rather like an accident, with broken bones and
blood and everything: No matter how much you wanted to, morbid
curiosity just didn't allow you to look away.

Before either
of them had to decide what to do now – there weren't all that
many options except making their escape or pouring a bucket of cold
water over them –, a triumphant shout could be heard. It came from
somewhere over to their left, from the direction of the main entrance
to this part of the gardens.

"Ha!
Keen eyes of the Wood-elves, indeed! They went this way!"

"I
could have told you that minutes ago if you had only allowed me
to look, Estel," another voice spoke up, sounding decidedly amused.
It also sounded quite a lot like the Prince of Mirkwood. "It is a
clever thing to do, going into the gardens. Remind me to tell them
that before I kill them."

"I will do my best. Even though
I have to tell you that homicidal thoughts tend to interfere with my
memory."

"Then think happy thoughts, ranger. Think about
how they will look when you slowly close your hands around their
necks and squeeze … and squeeze…"

"Oh,
not here. In Rivendell they are rather normal. Most elves here have
had them at least once when thinking about my dear brothers."

"That
I do believe. Let's find them, shall we?"

"After you,
mellon nín."

It was silent after that, but
both Elvynd and Isál knew that that wouldn't last for long.
Estel knew Rivendell like the back of his hand, and even though
Prince Legolas was a wood-elf, he wasn't completely incompetent.
The two of them would quickly figure out whereto the twins and Lord
Celylith had disappeared.

Obviously that was something that
the three elves in front of them had realised as well.

"Uhm,
I think we should go," the silver-haired elf spoke up first,
shooting nervous glanced about himself. Elvynd felt how his tension
even increased. If the Silvan elf was this anxious, he really
didn't want to know what the three of them had done to Estel
and the prince. "No, I really think we should go."

"A
tactical retreat." Elladan nodded. "A good plan, for a
wood-elf."

"Oh, as a Noldo you would know everything about
tactical retreats, wouldn't you," Celylith retorted, even though
there was no real venom in his voice.

"Quiet," Elrohir
said. "Let's go." He turned and smiled at the two silent
captains. "Elvynd. Isál. It was so nice to see you
again."

Elladan and Celylith didn't echo the sentiment,
either because they were too busy turning around and all but rushing
off or because they couldn't access just
the same amount of diplomatic insincerity
as the younger twin. Elrohir turned to follow them but then looked
back at the other two elves, a very dark glint in his eyes.

"You
did not see us." It didn't sound pleading, but
rather was a statement full of dark promises of what could and would
happen if the two captains would disagree.

Elvynd and Isál
shook their heads so quickly that the bones in their necks cracked
violently. A moment later the twins and Celylith were gone, hurrying
down the path into the direction of the courtyard amongst whispers of
hiding places and strategies.

Isál watched them go for
a moment before he turned to his friend, his eyes wide and more
scared-looking than they had ever looked during any of his
confrontations with Gaerîn's brother. They grew only wider
when they heard the unmistakable sounds of two people who were
drawing closer; one treading so quietly that it was almost impossible
to hear him, even for an elf, the other one treading more
loudly, but still so silently that he might have passed for one
of the Firstborn.

"Not a word about
this," he hissed at Elvynd who couldn't help but look over his
shoulder in a way that reminded the younger elf of a fawn trying to
spy the big bad wolf it knew had to be hiding somewhere close-by.
"Not one!"

"What do you think I am, suicidal?" the
other captain whispered back. "We saw nothing, heard nothing and
know nothing."

"Exactly." Isál nodded his head
fervently. "It's the only way to surviv… Estel!"

Elvynd
whirled around, realising that he looked like an elfling caught with
a hand in a jar with biscuits. Sure enough, he came face to face with
Lord Elrond's human son, and as soon as he saw him, he understood
why Isál had sounded like he had, namely torn between
surprised, shocked, frightened and impossibly amused.

Surprise
Elvynd could have predicted, because the whole of Rivendell knew that
Estel could be sneaky when he wanted to be, and that he could be
almost as quiet as an elf. Even though it was virtually impossible to
sneak up on an elf, the boy had managed to surprise his fair share of
Firstborn over the last few years, ever since some intelligent
individual (Elvynd suspected that Lord Elrond or Lord Glorfindel had
had something to do with that) had decided that he had to be
instructed in stealth and woodcraft. Fright he also understood, since
they had been talking to the twins and Lord Celylith just a few
seconds ago and were only a step away from being involved in yet
another catastrophe. Shock, he decided, he should also have expected,
because they just had been talking about Estel and the prince and it
was never nice to be caught talking behind someone's back,
especially when that someone belonged to the immediate family of Lord
Elrond Half-elven.

And amusement … well, that he understood
a second after laying eyes on the ranger and his Silvan
friend.

Elvynd narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to the
side, studying the elf and the ranger in front of him more closely.
The two of them were … red, there was no other word for it. They
were covered with some sort of red liquid from head to toe, looking
very much as if they had just slaughtered half of the Misty
Mountains' goblin population all by themselves. Even their faces
were almost uniformly red, something that looked highly dangerous. At
least Elvynd hoped that their faces were red because of the liquid
and not because they were very, very angry. Then again, how one could
not be angry when looking like this, he could truly not tell.

For
a moment, Elvynd was virtually rendered speechless. Isál
seemed to have similar problems, his mouth opening and closing in
astonishment. Even though Isál was his best friend, Elvynd had
to admit that the younger elf looked ridiculously like a very
surprised fish out of water.

Before either of them could shake
off his surprise, Aragorn raised a dark-red eyebrow, as if daring the
two elves to laugh or show any other signs of amusement, and smiled
at them. His teeth looked impossibly white against the dyed skin, and
even despite the man's glare Elvynd had a hard time controlling the
quivering corners of his mouth.

"Isál. Elvynd."
Aragorn nodded at them, the smile still on his lips. Elvynd noted
absent-mindedly that the man was using the exact same, fake smile his
elven brother had given them only minutes earlier. If he found it
strange that Isál was sitting in a tree, looking like a
frightened, overgrown squirrel, he did not comment on it. "A good
day to you."

"Gruh."

Three pairs of eyes turned
to Isál, who had obviously recovered from his shock-induced
muteness more quickly than his friend. Being able to speak and being
able to articulate words were two different things, however. Aragorn
and Legolas were staring coldly at the dark-haired captain while
Elvynd, standing to their right and just out of their line of sight
(or so he hoped), was shaking his head frantically. Isál
didn't seem to notice any of this and only kept staring at the two
beings in front of him, his eyes wide and incredulous.

"Kuh.
You ... ked. Red."

"Excuse me?"

It was the first
time that Prince Legolas raised his voice, prompting Elvynd to look
at him. He looked even … redder than Estel, if such a thing was
even possible. While the ranger's dark hair looked only darker and
… well, redder, Prince Legolas' once fair hair had taken on a
dark pink colour that didn't look becoming at all. He was also
wearing that particular expression that his father, King Thranduil,
was known for, namely the one that quite eloquently told everybody
that the next person who only looked at him the wrong way
would be messily dismembered.

Isál, apparently noticing
the danger he was in, closed his eyes for a moment and composed
himself. He took a deep breath and opened them again, the corners of
his mouth quivering traitorously when he looked at the other elf and
the ranger.

"You. Are red," he finally managed to bring
out, not being able to tear his eyes away from their faces. "Very
red."

Legolas and Aragorn exchanged a long-suffering look,
as if they had heard that particular statement more than once already
today. Elvynd was quite certain that they had indeed.

"We
noticed," Legolas told him flatly. Every single one of his noble
Sindarin ancestors seemed to stare out of his eyes, and in an
irrational moment Elvynd couldn't help but wonder why it wasn't
getting crowded in there. "It is rather hard to miss. I must
applaud your keen powers of observation, Captain. I…"

"Don't,"
Aragorn interrupted him. "Don't start another one of your
Silvan-Elves-are-superior speeches. You and
Celylith are becoming unbearable, I swear."

"But we are,
Estel."

"Of course," the man smiled at his friend in a
thoroughly unconvincing manner and reached out with a red hand to pat
Legolas' equally red forearm. "Keep telling yourselves that, and,
if you're lucky, someone else might believe you in … oh, about
ten or fifteen millennia."

Elvynd couldn't help but stare
at them with hopeful eyes. If they got into one of their
Noldor-versus-Silvan Elves debates, Isál and he just might get
out of this more or less intact. They weren't quite as bad as
Prince Legolas and the twins, but Estel was quite aware of his
Noldorin heritage and more than loyal to his adoptive family's
predominant origins.

"What delusions you Noldor entertain,"
Legolas said with an insolent grin that would have infuriated even
the most even-tempered elf. "Be that as it may, we can discuss this
later." Elvynd groaned inwardly. It seemed that the two wouldn't
be easily distracted, Eru damn their annoying souls. The wood-elf
turned towards them and fixed him and Isál with a penetrating
look. "Did either of you see Elladan or Elrohir? Or," he added
almost in a growl, "that disloyal captain of my father's?"

Elvynd
exchanged a quick look with Isál who was trying to blend back
into the tree, looking like an extremely large lizard. No matter how
annoyed and anxious he was at the moment, Elvynd found that he
couldn't blame him for it.
"Uhm … why?" he finally asked
not very eloquently.

Aragorn gave him a look that clearly
stated that he considered him a bumbling
idiot.
"I would have thought that to
be obvious," he said, gesturing at himself and his friend.

Isál
once again shuffled forward a bit, his interest caught despite
himself.
"How did they…?"

"I will not discuss
this," Legolas said, silver-blue eyes hard and flinty. Next to him,
Estel nodded firmly, and Elvynd resigned himself to the fact that
they would probably never find out. If Estel didn't want to talk,
he didn't, and the same went for the prince. The two of them were
just like their fathers and almost as bad as Lord Glorfindel. "Not
with you, and not with any other of the sixty-three people who have
already asked me that question today."

"An ambush."
Elvynd nodded sympathetically. Having grown up with a handful of
distant cousins and a best friend who seemed to think that they had
to put the twins' pranks to shame, he was no stranger to being
jumped from behind by someone. "You should have known better,
Estel. It has been too quiet lately."

"I was expecting
something like this," the man said sourly, rubbing a hand over his
face. The action didn't dislodge even the tiniest speck of paint.
"And if Legolas here," he shot the elf a scathing look, "wouldn't
have thought it necessary to upset Celylith so that he joined forces
with the demons posing as my brothers, my usual level of vigilance
would have been enough. This way, however…"

"Oh, do not
blame this on me, dúnadan," Legolas said, glaring
right back at him. "I didn't pour a vat of red dye on us!
Your brothers did; Celylith only helped a little. You can count
yourself lucky that I do not hold you accountable in their stead! And
what do you mean, I 'upset' Celylith? I told him to get rid of
that bat, something of which you were in fervent agreement, if I
recall correctly!

"No, you told him that if he didn't get
rid of the bat in the next two days, you would feed it to Rashwe."

Rashwe was Legolas' white steed, a large, white, beautiful
creature that also happened to be thoroughly evil. Most people would
find it perfectly understandable and possible to imagine that it
would eat anything from a troll to a mouse. It was mistrustful of
anyone it encountered but now seemed to be concentrating its
malicious attentions on the twins, much to everyone's
amusement.

Well, everyone but the twins', that was.

Aragorn
wrinkled his brow and continued.
"Honestly, I might have done
the same. Threatening somebody with Rashwe is just too much."

"For
the last time, he's a nice, perfectly normal horse. I truly do not
understand why everybody here is acting as
if he was a Nazgûl in disguise."

"Because it is a
Nazgûl in disguise. Only with, presumably, more legs." That
was Elvynd, mumbling the words so softly that they were almost
impossible to understand.

Legolas ignored his words,
something that was a seriously bad sign, since he usually took such
comments personally.
"Enough of this. Have you seen one of
them?"

Isál looked at his best friend and the way his
mouth was opening and closing helplessly.
"Shouldn't …
shouldn't you try to wash this … paint … off first? You know,
before it … stains?" he came to Elvynd's rescue, not even
really knowing what he was saying. He was making it up as he went,
and wasn't sure if it even made sense.

Aragorn gave him a
look so cold that Isál involuntarily shivered a
little.
"What," he asked in a far too
calm voice, "do you think we have been doing for
the past two hours?"

"Oh." It was all that Isál
said. There really wasn't much more to say.

"So, have you
seen them?" Aragorn repeated, sounding definitely annoyed now. "You
know that I will take it as a personal insult if you lie to me, don't
you?"

"Me? Lie to you, Estel?" Elvynd asked, chuckling
nervously. "Whatever would give you that idea? I must say, I am
offended."

"No, you're not," the man told him curtly.
"You have seen
them. Where are they?"

"Well, not here," Isál
spoke up with his most charming smile. Unfortunately it was lost on
both Aragorn and Legolas. "We don't know where they went."

"Ah!"
Legolas exclaimed triumphantly. "So they were here! Which
way did they go?"

Whatever small hope Elvynd might have had
to escape this situation relatively unscathed and, more importantly,
uninvolved, died right then and there. He exchanged a look with Isál,
saw the same resignation in his eyes, and hung his head.

"They
left the gardens a few minutes ago, heading for the
courtyard. They heard you coming and decided that absence was the
better part of valour."

Aragorn and Legolas looked very
pleased with the information, which
prompted Isál to speak up. If he had to be miserable, then
these two had no right to look so pleased.

"But since they
knew you were coming, they also knew that you would find us here.
They knew that, since we knew where they went, we would eventually
tell you, so now that you know, you should be aware that they know as
well." Isál grinned, as if what he had said had made perfect
sense. "It seems that everybody knows everything else, so if I were
you I would be careful where I followed them. They know you are
coming, after all."

"But we know that they know that we
know," Legolas told the dark-haired captain calmly. He surely
didn't do him the favour of looking miserable. "So we have the
advantage and can surprise them, for a change."

"How
wonderful," Elvynd said faintly. "I wish you the best of luck, my
lord."

Legolas nodded benevolently.
"Thank you." He
turned to Aragorn. "Do you still have it, Strider?"

Aragorn
produced a small, leather bottle with the same flourish a hobbit
might have used to pull out the world's largest mushroom. Elvynd
resolutely refused to think about what might be in said bottle.
"But
of course, mellon nín. Happy thoughts,
remember?"

"Indeed," Legolas grinned at him. "Shall
we?"

Aragorn merely returned the grin but turned back to
Elvynd and Isál before he followed the fair-haired elf down
the winding path.
"Thank you very much, my friends. You
were very helpful."

Then he turned around and ran after the
wood-elf who was already disappearing around a bend of the path,
moving in the very purposeful matter of someone with a mission. Most
likely a mission that involved unknown liquids, revenge, blood and
mayhem, but that was another thing Elvynd and Isál resolutely
refused to think about.

Isál was listening to the
fading footsteps and just thinking that he had been right in thinking
that just because it was a sunny day it didn't
mean that it would really be a nice day when Elvynd turned
towards him, looking up at him with serious eyes.

"We are
completely doomed, aren't we?"

Isál couldn't help
but smile at his best friend.
"Oh Eru, yes."

Elvynd
only nodded calmly and leaned back against the tree Isál was
still sitting in. Perhaps he should join him, he mused
absent-mindedly, it had to be (at least marginally) safer than being
on the ground. It was silent for a while, even in the courtyard and
beyond – the proverbial calm before the storm, of that Elvynd was
very sure –, but then Isál shrugged, quite clearly accepting
his fate.

"Well, it has been far too quiet lately."

A
loud shout could suddenly be heard, cutting through the quiet morning
air like a hot knife through butter. To Elvynd it sounded either like
a troll someone had just trodden onto its foot or
like a Nazgûl's fell beast that had
twisted an ankle. Both possibilities sounded far more attractive than
what it most likely really was.

"Not anymore," he said
glumly.

"Ah, come now, my friend." Isál grinned at
him in that strange, fond way he had been
using ever since Aberon. "At least it can't get much
worse."

That wasn't entirely true, of course, but there
honestly was no way either of them could have foreseen it. Not before
long they would wish for vats of red paint or annoying young lords or
insane future brother-in-laws.

Unbeknownst to the two young
captains, it would indeed get far, far worse, for all of them and a
lot of other people.

But that, as they would have agreed, was
another Rivendell rule for you.

More
than twelve hours later, a few hundred miles removed and seemingly a
whole world away, a campfire was crackling noisily. If was, as every
objective observer would have agreed, doing so in an exceedingly and
inappropriately merry way, even though there was no such observer
present. It was not the only fire in the vicinity, there were others
visible not too far away, lighted after no particular order or
fashion.

There were dark shapes just outside of the fire's
reach, moving with surprising speed and surety through the darkness
that spoke of sharp eyes and long experience. The sounds that
accompanied these movements didn't seem to fit to that;
there were grunts and growls and other,
half-articulated sounds whose horrific, terrifying effects were only
amplified by the darkness.

Close to the fire in the centre of
what looked like a chaotically pitched camp
a single tree stood, the bark darkened and charred as if someone had
purposely tried to set fire to it. The crown was still lush and
green, though, a stark contrast to its surroundings that was so
deeply wrong that most people would have been hard-pressed to say why
exactly.

There was a single figure sitting slumped
against the darkened trunk, hauntingly lit by the dancing flames of
the campfire and looking, on first sight, as if he was merely asleep
or resting. That impression was quickly dispelled by the thick dark
ropes that bound him to the tree, winding around his torso and arms
and even around his throat. The man's head hung forward limply,
long, dark, blood-encrusted strands of hair hiding his face. His
clothes and cloak were ripped and torn, covered in blood and mud, and
where skin showed through the ruined clothing, it was bruised and cut
and bloody.

The light the fire cast onto the
bound man was briefly obscured when another figure stepped closer
before it moved to the right, out of the flames' direct light. It
was another man, tall and covered with a long, dark cloak whose hood
covered his face, hiding his face and identity as effectively as any
mask he could have worn. For a second, he only looked down on the
bound man, but then he crouched down in front of him, his head
cocking slightly to the side as he studied him closely.

With a
movement that looked curious more than anything else, he finally
reached out and tangled his hand in the other man's hair, using it
to pull his head up. When the bound man's head connected with the
tree at his back, he unconsciously let out a weak, pain-filled moan,
his head moving feebly to escape the painful hold the other had on
him. A moment later, blood-encrusted eyelids opened, revealing
clouded, almost fever-bright grey eyes.

The prisoner only
looked at the hooded man for a moment before he allowed his eyes to
close again, his lips pressing together tightly in either an attempt
to stop any sounds of pain that might escape him or to prevent him
from saying something that was on the tip of his tongue. The man who
still had a firm grip of his head didn't react to that, but when he
spoke, a grin was clearly audible in his voice.

"No, no, no,
we'll have none of that. You have slept long enough now, I think;
it's time for you to do some talking."

At that, the other
man's eyes opened again, and for a moment, there was incredulity
and hatred amongst the pain and confusion. The hooded man only waited
for a moment before he tightened his grip on the other's hair and
slammed his head against the tree behind him. The prisoner didn't
utter a sound, but his bruised face turned even paler, taking on the
colour of dirty-grey snow.

"Now, I am beginning to lose my
patience," the other man said, his voice calm and controlled and
almost sounding friendly. Almost. "We have been dancing this
particular dance for two days now. Just answer my question and all
this will be over, I promise."

His prisoner only looked at
him with wide, blank eyes before bloody lips twisted into something
that, in a different life, could have been called a smile.
"Your
promises … mean … nothing, móradan."

Behind
them, a sudden hissing sound could be heard, and, for the briefest
moment, it looked as if dozens of yellow eyes focussed on them. The
hooded man merely raised a hand and the sounds subsided, even though
the feeling of anger and hatred and a darkness
so much more deadly than that that was
surrounding them did not lessen.

One could almost see the
smile when the man released his prisoner's hair, almost causing the
other's head to fall forward once more. It was clear that he hardly
possessed the strength to raise his head, too weakened by the past
two days of pain and fear and the sort of darkness that wants to
swallow you whole.

"Oh, but they do," the hooded man says
coolly. "They can mean the difference between ending this tonight
and two more days of it." He cocked his head to the side again
calculatingly. "Maybe I could even make you last three. Wouldn't
that be entertaining?"

The other man didn't answer.
Whether it was because his body was betraying him or he simply tried
to drift off to someplace else, but his eyes once again began to
drift closed. The hooded man didn't take very kindly to that and,
without saying anything, calmly placed his fingers over a spot on
his prisoner's left side that was already wet
and glistening with blood and pushed.

The reaction was almost
instantaneous. No matter how weakened and close to giving up his body
was, this pain did register in the bound man's brain almost without
delay. His body convulsed as agony blossomed in his middle,
ineffectively fighting against the bonds that bound him to the tree
as a chocked-off scream of pain was ripped from his lips. The other
man only removed his fingers, now wet with blood, when his prisoner's
struggles had died down and he was hanging in his bounds, shuddering
convulsively.

"Let's try this again, shall we?" the
hooded man said almost pleasantly as he sat back
on his haunches, studying the other man with the same intensity with
which a cat would study a mouse. "Tell me what I
want to know."

The bound man didn't even lift his head; he
most likely didn't possess the strength to do anything but try and
force as much oxygen as possible into his lungs. His voice, however,
was strong and calm and utterly uncompromising when he
answered.
"Never."

The other man's only answer was
reaching once again for his wounded side and burrowing his fingers in
the torn flesh. This time, only a groan found its
way past the wounded man's clenched teeth, but when the other man
removed his hand a minute later and once again jerked his head up by
the hair, his face was so bloodless that it looked almost ghostly in
the flickering firelight. There was fresh blood on his lips, and the
old and new bruises and abrasions on his face looked positively
obscene against the paleness of his skin.

"Never," his
captor told him in a silky tone of voice, "can be a long, long
time. You of all people should know that."

The bound man
smiled that horrific parody of a smile once more, showing bloody
teeth that gleamed in the fire's light. There was relief on his
face, and a strange, faint hint of triumph in his eyes as he looked
at the other man.
"Not … going to last … three days."

"No,"
the hooded man replied calmly. "No, you won't. You are going to
die, that is something both you and I can agree on, I think." He
leaned forward a bit, up to the point where one would have thought
to be able to see his features,
but the oval of his face remained dark and shadowed. "The only
question is when you will die, and how. That should be of a certain
interest to you, no?"

The dark-haired man swallowed thickly,
painfully, before he focussed eyes that were clouded and dark with
pain on the dark hood in front of his eyes.
"What will happen …
w-will happen. My fate is … in the … h-hands of the Powers."

The
other man shook his head in mock sadness, and there was a mocking
grin in his voice when he answered.
"Not at the moment, no.
Right now, not your almighty Lords hold your life in their hands, but
me."

"Not … almighty," the wounded man protested
weakly. There was a strange detachment in his voice, as if he was
barely aware of where he was, pain and blood loss finally beginning
to catch up with him. "Almighty and … all-knowing is only
Ilúvatar, father of the Eruhíni."

The
hissing, malicious sounds once again rose up behind them like the
tide washing against the shore, and this time, it did not die down so
quickly. Movements were barely visible just
outside of the firelight and the ever-present feeling of malicious
hatred only seemed to grow stronger, yellowish eyes seemingly
gleaming in the shadows. The other man paid all that no heed, but he
did not release his prisoner's head.

"My … friends here
are beginning to become impatient. They have been waiting for two
days now, and you have not been providing the kind of entertainment
they are used to." He leaned forward a little. "They are not
happy. I, however, have a vested interest in keeping them
happy. I just might indulge them a little."

The bound man
coughed a little, bright red blood appearing at the corners of his
mouth and bubbling obscenely as he tried to breathe. His captor
seemed to look at the blood for a moment before he sat back a little,
his left fist still tangled in the other's dark hair.

"It
can all end tonight. Tell me what I want to know, and I will end it
quickly and painlessly. Do it not, and I will let my friends do as
they wish." He chuckled darkly. "That is not a way you want to
go, you know that as well as I do."

"Empty … threats,"
the other man brought out, his chest heaving as he tried to draw in
enough oxygen.

"Empty?" the hooded man asked, his right
hand ghosting over the other's torso to burrow itself in a deep
slash up on his shoulder. The other man's body arched with the
pain, a groan turning into something like a scream when the long
fingers twisted ever deeper. Finally, he let go, the invisible smile
once again returning to his voice. "Ah, I don't think so. You
have seen what they can do – many times, I believe. I will let
them have you."

The prisoner's eyes that had slid closed
as the newest wave of pain had washed over him
slowly opened once more, blinking as he tried to get his surroundings
into focus. He looked at his captor silently for a moment or two,
unaware of or ignoring his body's
trembling fight for air, and a sudden calmness seemed to lay itself
over his stern, ravaged features.

"Do what … you …
will." Ignoring the pain the grip that the other man had on his
hair must have caused him, he lifted his chin slightly, grey eyes
hard and calm. "I … will never b-betray … my people, least of …
of all to a coward … who is too af-afraid to show his face."

The
other man was silent for a moment, studying his prisoner's face and
the unwavering determination in his eyes. Finally he sighed, shaking
his hooded head slightly as if saddened.

"No," he agreed
quietly. "I had never really thought you would."

With no
hesitation and a movement almost too fast to follow, he drew his
dagger and slit the bound man's throat. And later, when everything
was over and the dark-haired man hung dead in his bonds, he reached
out and removed the brooch that pinned the dead man's cloak upon
his left shoulder.

The brooch, shaped like a rayed star, had
survived everything almost unstained and unblemished, and as the
hooded man held it in his hands, turning it over thoughtfully, it
blinked and gleamed in the oppressing darkness, and no real star
could have been more beautiful.

And that, perhaps, was the
most dreadful thing of all.

TBC...

mellon nín (S.) - my friend
yéni
(pl. of yén) (Q.) - elvish unit of time, equivalent to 144
solar years
dúnadan (S.) - 'Man of the West',
ranger
móradan (S.) - 'Man of Darkness' - a rather impolite
thing to say to any human, especially to one of of the Edain
Eruhíni
(S.) - 'Children of Eru', the Children of Ilúvatar. A term for
two races of Arda: Elves and Men

So,
and it's starting again... Will they ever catch a break? Highly
doubtful if you ask me... •evil grin• I wanted to thank you for
all the reviews for the last chapter of "A Taste of Disaster"
I have received over the past few weeks. They really meant a lot to
me and encouraged me to start posting this newest bit of madness.
Thanks! I am trying to reply to all of them, but since I am a tiny
bit busy at the moment, it might take me a bit yet. Thanks for your
patience! •hugs all reviewers• Oh, and about this story: I am
trying to post once a week - I know, I know, let's see how long THAT
lasts. I am doing my best, though. So, the next chapter should be
here next Tuesday, and, as always: Review? Yes, please!

The author would like to thank you for your continued support. Your review has been posted.